


epicene

by chateauofmyheart



Series: queen + rare words [7]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Femininity, Fluff and Angst, Gender Issues, Getting Together, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Insecurity, Internalized Homophobia, Internalized Misogyny, M/M, Nail Polish, Self-Acceptance, Self-Hatred, and bri's femininity so im going off, early 70s queen, frian is so weirdly underrated, its not cutting or anything graphic but brian isn't kind to himself, just want to be careful, rog n deaky are barely in this im sorry, this all looks really heavy but i promise its not that bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-25 23:14:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17734499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chateauofmyheart/pseuds/chateauofmyheart
Summary: epicene - having the characteristics of both sexes, or; having characteristics of the opposite sex"Freddie says, 'We should paint our nails'and Brian says, 'Alright.'"





	epicene

**Author's Note:**

> sorry its been so long, darlings! busy n all that
> 
> anyways freddie and brian's relationship is not talked about half as much as it should and frian is so underrated its criminal. so this is an ode to their adorable relationship in the early days! i mean, matching aesthetics? painting their nails opposite colors for the art hoe deep down in both of them? its cute shit guys and you're missing out
> 
> this is also an ode to brian may's femininity. its not really talked about but its so interesting!! from what i've read, his mother gave birth to a stillborn girl, and he was raised learning skills that were both traditionally masculine and feminine. plus, after freddie, he was the one most into the whole glam rock thing. he isn't feminine-looking like roger or as camp and dramatic as freddie, but his personality reflects his more feminine side. i've read an interesting meta that suggests that his uncertainty about gender and himself was the driving force behind son and daughter in their first album, which otherwise reads as kinda sexist (which i suppose makes sense for the time, but all brian's songs are very thoughtful and id like to think it reflects more than that)
> 
> ramble over! hope you enjoy this slightly different style!

“We should paint our nails” Freddie says.

It’s out of the blue. Brian’s sat at his desk, making a valiant attempt to understand his sleepily-written notes while Freddie is sprawled across his bed, head propped up on one elbow and stripped down to a thin shirt and achingly tight pants.

He looks like a conquest, in Brian’s bed, and Brian tries not to think about it too hard.

Before Brian can respond, Freddie follows with an explanation; “We have a theme going, you know? The whole black and white thing. Good versus evil. So I can paint my nails black and you do white.”

(It’s times like this Brian wishes he could tell Freddie doesn’t need to justify himself. He doesn’t ever justify himself to the world and yet he always gives Brian an explanation, like he’s expecting a fight or outright dismissal.

And yes, Brian and Freddie disagree often, fight like brothers or perhaps lovers, but Brian can’t say no to Freddie, not really. Not when it matters. Part of him wishes Freddie knew it, so maybe he’d be a little less insecure, but a larger part of Brian is desperately terrified of the idea.)

Brian imagines his nails white. Holds the image in his mind, tests the weight of it. He’d always loved the way his mother’s hands would look painted; the red polish she wore had a gracefulness Brian had admired. (And perhaps he liked feeling graceful himself. Liked the weight of jewelry on his wrists. He’d grown up as a daughter and a son to replace the sister he never had, and sometimes the necklaces he wears feel like chains around his neck but he loves the way they look all the same.)

Brian looks at his nails, short and bare as they are. He takes that picture in his mind and fits it neatly over reality until he can _see_ it. Something heavy settles in his gut.

Freddie says, “We should paint our nails”

and Brian says, “Alright.”

 

* * *

 

Freddie’s eyes look devilish in the low light. He keeps looking at Brian from under his lashes, bent forward as he is.

His hair, the natural curls he usually burns away, brush his bare shoulders. The decorative black jacket he’d walked in with is precisely arranged over Brian’s desk chair. (And he was so _familiar_ now. Hung up his jacket like he belonged here.) His skin glows under the candlelight.

Because they’re painting their nails, just them two in Brian’s cramped room, to the light of a candle. Because Freddie wanted the right _atmosphere_ and Brian can’t tell him no, can only ramble about fire hazards and eye strain until Freddie looks at him and Brian shuts up.

Maybe it’s the candle smoke or the darkness or the way Freddie looks at him, but Brian can’t breathe. His mind is a hurricane and his stomach twists up until he thinks he might be sick.

(Because this feels wrong. Because boys don’t wear jewelry or eyeliner, and they don’t paint their nails and they certainly don’t _like_ it. They don’t look like Freddie, with his smoke-filled eyes and his long, silky hair and his little hand gestures. 

Part of Brian wants to blame his mother, for teaching him to do things daughters do alongside everything else. He wants that to be why he likes wearing women’s clothing, long draping sleeves and tight corset-like shirts and intricate designs, and why he grew out his hair despite hating the way it curled, too messy and untameable and unlike Freddie’s gentle waves. 

But that would be unfair. She didn’t teach him to want _this_ , to want to be pretty. She didn’t teach him to want girls to think he’s pretty. She didn’t teach him to want boys to think he’s pretty. 

She didn’t teach him to want Freddie to think he’s pretty.)

And yet he stays. He stays with Freddie in his poorly lit room and paints his nails and likes it.

 

It ends up a bit of a disaster. Brian’s never painted his nails before, and it’s easy to tell. Brian can’t get his hands to still, can’t steady himself against his own storm, and Freddie is _so close_. White paint is cold on the skin of his fingers.

Freddie, though better off than Brian, is also a novice. His piercing focus and delicate precision make up for most of it, though paint laces his nails all the same. Brian ignores the barely-there razor edge of annoyance when he realizes Freddie’s picked up one of his shirts to wipe at the edges. 

The black glints sharp and dangerous. He looks down to his white fingertips and knows with a resigned certainty that he can’t do this with his other hand. Freddie’s head is still bowed.

“I can only do one hand.” 

Brian barely breaks the silence, voice so low he can barely hear himself. Freddie gives him a little smile and his narrowed eyes shine in the candlelight.

He murmurs back “so can I” like it’s a secret for just the two of them. His gaze drops down to Brian’s hand and he giggles a little, but says nothing. It’s a small salve for the burning shame on Brian’s face.

 

They sit together, knees brushing and hands mirroring, as they wait for their nails to dry. Brian thinks about opposites. 

White for Brian. Black for Freddie. Perfect contrast. Perfect balance.

The black queen and the white queen. Two halves of a chessboard.

_Like the songs we’re each writing_ , Brian muses. Freddie’s is bombastic and mercurial, while Brian’s is a melancholic thing that pales in comparison. He doesn’t like to compare himself much, and he’s just as good a songwriter as Freddie, but his sadness touches everything and he thinks he can’t truly be the color white if his useless mind is so stained. 

_“Good versus evil”_ Freddie’s voice in his head echoes and Brian’s heart twists. He wonders if that’s how Freddie sees himself. Not just how he fronts himself to their shows and the world, but truly, genuinely bad. The thought is awful. 

Freddie radiates more light and joy than anyone Brian has ever met. He can’t truly be the color black then, either, because he’s much too bright. He’s the night sky, blackness filled with billions upon billions of celestial lights. God, to imagine Freddie not realizing this- it breaks his heart.

 

When Freddie’s leaving, later that evening after the candle’s burned down, Brian grabs his hand- the one without any black- and pulls him into a hug. Freddie’s body is tensed, years of boxing making bracing himself against sudden movements into a habit, but then he relaxes into Brian’s hold. His silky dark hair brushes Brian’s lips. Brian can feel his smile against his exposed collarbone.

Freddie mumbles a “what’s all this then, love?” into the space between them after they part and Brian wants to kiss him. 

(He doesn’t, he doesn’t dare, but he smiles at Freddie with as much love as he’ll allow himself to show and tells him he’s lovely. Freddie ducks his head and laughs, light and beautiful, and Brian remembers his hands are on Freddie’s thin waist. He ignores the jolt of panic and keeps them there, casually, until Freddie steps back, tugging at the collar of his black jacket and opening the door.

Those are the last words in that apartment that night, and Brian went to bed with his own voice a ghost in his ear.

“You’re lovely, Fred.”)

 

* * *

 

His nails look worse in the morning light, outside the soft and sensual quietude he’d held his through the night before. Brian picks at the mess through his quick breakfast and during class and in the rehearsal hall before practice.

Despite the significant improvement he’s made throughout the day, Roger still makes a comment; “Thought you were perfect, Bri, what happened?” because he’s in a good mood and the thought of Brian not being perfect makes him laugh.

Freddie laughs too, with an unabashed flash of teeth that makes Brian tremble. He tells Roger something but Brian can’t hear it over the rush of blood in his ears.

Brian wants to say “I couldn’t help it.” He wants to say “my hands shake when I’m near you.” He doesn’t say it, because it’s easier not to. He laughs along and changes the topic, because that’s easier too. 

(When it comes to matters of the heart, Brian’s always taken the easy way out. It’s stupid, and cowardly, but he’s only ever been book-smart and books don’t teach you how to love. Only that it hurts.)

 

Freddie is proud of his nails. Brian can see it in the way he holds his hand to his chest, fingers splayed, in their photoshoots. He holds things, if possible, even more daintily now and it’s endearing, really, enough to drown out the little voice in Brian’s head that sounds too much like his father screaming about what’s proper.

Brian’s not ashamed of his, per se, but he certainly doesn’t flaunt them- the mere idea makes him nauseous. No, he keeps his hands to himself and no one can see them as he stands in the back of the group.

Freddie’s black stained nails catch his eye and his heart flutters.

 

* * *

 

Like mountains and marble statues, the color flakes away eventually. 

He rubs at the flecks of white and wants to ask Freddie “are we doing this again?” but doesn’t dare. Part of him doesn’t want to, wants to distance himself from that strange closeness and the unnatural wanting he’d felt that evening, but a greater part of him misses it. 

 

(Chains heavy around his neck and wrists, ties on the back of his shirt pulled just a bit too tight, eyeliner burning on the edge of his eyelids: this is how he punishes himself. These things he’s not supposed to want and yet can’t stop wanting, this is how he lets himself have them. Just a bit too much, just on the wrong side of pretty- the side that hurt.)

Freddie makes love to the microphone and shimmies up to Brian, who roots himself in the spot best he can, knowing he’d end up leaning towards him given the chance. Freddie is magnetic, black and shimmering under the stage lights. Brian tries, tries, tries not to give in to the iron in his blood.

(It doesn’t always work, of course, because Brian is a coward even to himself. Freddie does a little swerving motion with his body towards him and Brian responds with a body movement of his own. Freddie leans against him, belting into the half mic, and Brian _melts_.)

 

After the show, Brian can’t catch his breath. He thinks it might be from Freddie until sensation returns to his body and he feels the laces digging into his spine.

He’s gasping for air when John comes up to him. He’s not sure he’s making any sense, but John must understand enough, because large hands brush his back hesitantly and despite himself, Brian’s heart clenches. Relief is the sweet taste of oxygen. 

Everything spins and he feels like he’s floating. Lights blur and fill his vision. Underneath the static fuzz in his mind, there’s an undercurrent of voices that rise and fall in pitch like the ocean.

 

He wakes up on the floor. John’s soft hair tickles his jaw. Brian tries to sit up, but vertigo carries him gently back to the ground. (Or maybe that was John, guiding his head and looking pale in a way that had nothing to do with the stage makeup.)

Later, the image of John’s panicked eyes have etched themselves into his mind and Brian realizes how selfish he’s been.

 

The next show he wears a number without any ties on it and lets guilt choke him instead.

 

* * *

 

“The polish is coming off finally, darling, we’re going to need to repaint them” Freddie comments casually after practice one day.

Brian’s mouth goes dry and he coughs, once, bent over where he’s packing up. The hurricane in his mind returns. He remembers Freddie’s eyes, and the candlelight, and the hushed smiles. He remembers the nausea and the fear and Freddie’s body against his onstage.

Brian says “alright.” 

It’s all he can say. 

“Alright.”

And, well.

 

* * *

 

Freddie’s lashes are long and dark against his cheek. They contrast painfully with the paleness of his skin under the moonlight. _There’s that black and white again,_ Brian thinks.

( _Freddie croons quietly as he applies the polish brush carefully to his thumb. Brian can’t catch every word, but Freddie’s voice picks up._

_“I’m lord of all darkness, I’m queen of the night.”_

_The bracelets on his wrists click together. Brian sets down the little white bottle._ )

Freddie looks none of the wicked seducer he is onstage. Asleep, his sharp edges are smoothed out and those tight lips are a half-open smear in the dark. His silky hair fans out across Brian’s pillow. Freshly painted black nails are glossy against the downy hair on his chest.

Brian looks at him and wants to cry. 

( _“You really think that?”_

_“Think what, dear?”_

_“That you’re the- black, the color. You think you’re darkness?”_ )

Cold water is a vicious awakening, dripping down Brian’s jaw as he studies his face in the mirror. He doesn’t look pretty now. He looks well and truly tired. His hands are still shaking.

( _Freddie barks a laugh._

_“Of course, darling! Haven’t you heard? I’m the nasty queenie here to lure you to temptation!” He flicks his hair back with a flourish and winks._

_Brian’s hands tremble in his lap. There’s a spot of white on his black pants. Freddie’s pants are white._

_“But you’re so much more than that.”_ )

Brian exits the bathroom with a sigh, and stands in front of his bedroom. Freddie breathes softly a couple feet away.

He wants nothing more than to join him. The version of his father that lives inside him shivers in disgust. He stands and hovers in the frame of the door- and aren’t doorways supposed to be gateways? There’s an entire world between him and Freddie right now- feeling like a ghost haunting his own flat.

( _Freddie rolls his eyes, waves his hand dismissively._

_“You’re thinking too much again, Brian. This is about the music! And the people. They love it.”_

_“But it’s not about that, or them, Fred, it’s about you. It’s always been you. And you are every color under the sun. You are light and darkness and the entire sky between. You are every star and planet and nebula. You are everything.”_

_Brian doesn’t say that. What he does say:_

_“I think you’re brilliant, Fred. No, listen-”_ )

Brian steps forward.

( _Freddie isn’t listening._

_Brian tries anyway._

_“You’re too brilliant to be darkness.”_

_Brian holds his gaze, desperately hoping Freddie will believe him. Freddie’s eyes, far too young looking in the candlelight, reflect that hope._ )

Brian sits as lightly as he can on the bed, pulling his bony legs together. Freddie’s breath sounds like a sigh.

( _Freddie looks away._

_Brian’s heart falls._

_Freddie whips around, hair and arms flying. He wraps himself around Brian._

_Brian’s heart soars._ )

Gently, gently, he tucks himself against Freddie’s impossibly warm body. The hard planes of his chest are undeniably masculine. Bile sits in his throat. Every molecule in Brian’s body sings in relief.

( _“God, Brian, I don’t deserve you.”_

_Freddie’s voice wavers, but he doesn’t cry._

_Brian wants to tell him “you deserve so much more.” he wants to tell him “you deserve someone who isn’t so afraid.” But he’s always going to leave things unsaid, so he just hugs Freddie back as tightly as he’ll allow himself._ )

Freddie’s head rolls onto his shoulder. Brian wants to kiss him.

 

( _The next morning, Freddie complains about his smudged nails and looks at Brian under his lashes and says “guess we’ll have to try again” and Brian can’t help himself._

_“I love you.”_

_It only takes a couple of minutes and a short, painful conversation, and then Freddie says it back._ )

They repaint their nails that after breakfast. Brian kisses his hand like a gentleman and lets Freddie trace his eyes in eyeliner like a lady. 

They press their hands together, bare and black and bare and white, and Brian decides it’s all a balancing act.

**Author's Note:**

> tell me what you think and what you'd like to see from me in the future! ive got various fics in the works but nothing even close to done so tell me what you'd like for me to focus on!


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